how much will you give?
seeking courage.
“This is how I know that it doesn’t matter if you think the goals are attainable. They are. What matters is that they are impossible without the work, they cannot happen if you don’t make the work… Time bends very easily; you can fold it like this with little trouble. So. The spell is to make that future real, which can be done because you are not powerless, and the only thing that needs to be done in the here and now is to make the work. Or, to put it simply, all you have to do is write.” — (Akwaeke Emezi, “Dear Senthuran”)
The above passage is culled from “Dear Senthuran”, where Akwaeke Emezi states that for writers, the key is to put in the work and just write. It’s simple advice, straight to the point, and most importantly, it’s true. Writing does get easier and better when you constantly do it. Your writing becomes clearer, and your sentences pulsate with life and rhythm. And on the days you doubt this growth, your readers will confirm it, don’t worry. They will tell you that you have improved and they won’t be lying. They will describe your sentences as an “unraveling” and tell others that your writing feels like a hug. BUT — because you have grown doesn’t mean that you have done enough. Nope, it’s only the start.
You see, this act of arranging words on paper/screen is as important to me as the very air that I breathe. Telling stories is the only thing I have held and felt certain that it belonged to me. Destiny is a concept I have doubts about but deep down in my heart of hearts, I know that it is what I was born to do. I also know that even with all the time I have put into “honing my craft”, I haven’t scratched the surface. To dig deeper into my being and draw out what I’m capable of is difficult work. But that’s what I need to reach what I want.
“Again, it seems simple, but none of it is. Execution isn’t, and neither is obedience; both are rife with costs, both are stained with ash from the burned offering. You get nothing for free; you pay for all of it. God asks for so much. How much will you give? Your loved ones, your reality, your friends, your pleasures, your time, your security, your sanity, your fear, your control, your illusions? How much will you get?” — (Akwaeke Emezi, “Dear Senthuran”)
Sacrifice. That’s what it all boils down to at the end of the day. How much will you give? How much? Since reading that, I have interrogated myself over and over again. The work is before me, and so are excuses. There are a thousand reasons in my head justifying me lying down and not writing. But the truth is that something/someone has to give. How much will I give? I don’t know, but we’ll find out. I have struggled with writing all week but I forced myself through the barrier, typing this on my phone while my fingers hurt. That’s what I’m giving now, it’ll have to do.
Writing is exhausting. To search yourself for honesty and put it down is draining. It takes a lot of mental energy to face your fear of not being good enough; to win the battle against your urge to paraphrase; to manipulate your words so it can please your audience. And I get so tired because I obsess over the things I say — “What does this mean (to you)?” “How do you feel about it?” are the questions that I ask myself week in, week out. How much will I give? Reading the second quoted passage over and over again is a revelation. It tells you that it’s all on the table. Your loved ones, your reality, friends, pleasures, time, security, sanity, fear, control, your illusions are ALL on the table. How much will I give? I don’t know yet, but we’ll see.
Do you know what I want? Courage. It’s so scary deciding to leave your comfort zone. Probably even harder admitting to yourself that you were comfortable. The future seems very scary through these new lenses and all I want is the courage to persevere through writer’s block, laziness, doubt, and all the other things that stand in the way of me doing the work.
The courage to write.
About sounds. Of sweaty men slugging it out on a sandy football pitch. Or traders in Yaba hurling expletives at your father and calling you beautiful in the same sentence. Of quiet streets and noisy hostels. Of Duncan Mighty passionately comparing his woman to yam porridge.
About sights. Of rust, on roofs and safety razor blades, or beautiful T-shirts that tell us the future is female and how we should Just Do It. Of cardboard boxes sitting pretty in gutters and the pure water sachet drifting in the wind, the pilgrim on his lonely journey to the eventual trashcan.
About smells. Of hot puff puff straight from the pan, or the antiseptic your roommate pours generously to kill germs in the water. Of the stranger’s bad breath when he stopped you to ask for directions. The courage to write about the stench of Lagos, a city where Philistine-warrior-sized garbage dumps line the road instead of trees. The smell of Sundays, of stew on white rice, and of juice if Mommy is feeling nice.
About tastes. Of meatpies and plantain; of chlorine when you dive in the pool, of the mint as you brush last night’s dinner off your tongue. How the taste of saliva fills up your mouth as you walk to the notice board to check exam results. Of wine, beer, water, and a cold bottle of Coke. Of defeat as your friend takes a picture of the scores as evidence for the group chat. Lmao, I thought you said you could play FIFA.
About touch — like the feel of soft bread. About the tension you feel when you hold a pressing iron in your hands; the slight maneuvers to avoid touching the hot metal plate with your bare hands; the pleasure you get from smoothening the fabric in slow, steady strokes, back and forth, back and forth.
The courage to write about her. How she lingers through her scent on t-shirts and hoodies; the way her hair feels as you run your fingers through it; her hands, her forehead, her skin — soft and welcoming as she fits so perfectly in your embrace. How her neck feels when you wrap your hands around it, fueled by raw lust.
The courage to write.
About the times you are happy. When the joys and jokes are abundant and tears stream down your cheeks as you howl with laughter. About the sad times when your heart aches, and it feels like there is a vacuum in your soul that can never be filled; the world is on your shoulder and you just cannot take it anymore.
The courage to write about times like this when you struggle to write. You feel leprous, like an outcast in the Old Testament. Words avoid you, and sentences cross to the other side of the road when they see your face. Talk about how you’ve sat down in front of your laptop for hours without writing a single memorable sentence. You’ve said the words aloud twenty times and they sound good to the ear, but once they are on the screen, the heart rejects them.
About strength, and weakness. About pain. About glory and disgrace. About beauty and ugliness. About virtue. About the good in the world and the people in it. About evil that lurks in corridors and behind the eyes of pedophile uncles. About suffering. About love, for women, for men, for cute pets, for meatpies and plantain. About hate, in all forms and disguises. About life and all its stress, all its joys. About death that prowls hospital corridors.
The courage to write about any and everything under the sun.
P.S: It’s obvious that Dear Senthuran has me stirred up. It’s a great book, you should read it. Shout out to Tito for putting me on, best guy.
